Black Cat Weekly #108 E-Book

Karen Odden

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 282

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

It seems the Halloween season starts earlier and earlier each year. I first began noticing Halloween candy in stores in July (!), and every time I turned around since then, there were more decorations, party favors, and treats at hand. Is it any wonder I’ve been wandering around the house humming “The Monster Mash” for the last few weeks?

Our 108th issue kicks off a truly epic celebration of the season, with a pair of nightmarish treats. You will never look at seagulls the same way after experiencing Adrian Cole’s “The Birds Are Back in Town.” And Lin Carter’s “Keru” is a tale that would have been right at home in Weird Tales in its heyday.

“The Power of Evil,” by Alan Orloff, is not a supernatural tale, but futuristic suspense (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken), so it’s doing double duty this time. And the grisly-sounding “A Burn That Reaches Bone,” by Karen Odden is not a mad slasher tale, but a tale of a horrible crime that reaches through the generations. (Thanks to Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman for this one.) And, of course, there are traditional mysteries, too—I found a rare Victorian-era mystery by Australian writer Ernest Favenc while I was browsing issues of Australian Town and Country Journal looking for mysteries by Mary Fortune (my favorite classic Australian mystery writer) and couldn’t resist adding it to this issue. Plus we have a detective novel featuring Nick Carter and a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.
On the science fiction and fantasy side, we have another great Norman Spinrad story, a classic by Robert F. Young, and the first entry in the Pillsworth & Toffee series by Charles F. Myers (we have more coming up). Fun stuff.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“The Power of Evil,” by Alan Orloff [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Swimming into Troubled Waters,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“A Burn That Reaches Bone,” by Karen Odden [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The Mystery of the Death Stroke,” by Ernest Favenc
The Forced Crime, by Nicholas Carter [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“The Power of Evil,” by Alan Orloff [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Entities,” by Norman Spinrad [short story]
“The Birds Are Back in Town” is copyright © 2019 by Adrian Cole [short story]
“The Courts of Jamshyd,” by Robert F. Young [short story]
“Keru,” by Lin Carter
“I’ll Dream of You” by Charles F. Myers [short story]

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

POWER OF EVIL, by Alan Orloff

SWIMMING INTO TROUBLED WATERS, by Hal Charles

A BURN THAT REACHES BONE, by Karen Odden

THE MYSTERY OF THE DEATH STROKE, by Ernest Favenc

THE FORCED CRIME, by Nicholas Carter

CHAPTER 1.

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

ENTITIES, by Norman Spinrad

THE BIRDS ARE BACK IN TOWN, by Adrian Cole

THE COURTS OF JAMSHYD, by Robert F. Young

KERU, by Lin Carter

I’LL DREAM OF YOU, by Charles F. Myers

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

“The Power of Evil” is copyright © 2023 by Alan Orloff and appears here for the first time.

“Swimming into Troubled Waters” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

“A Burn That Reaches Bone” is copyright © 2021 by Karen Odden. Originally published in SoWest: Love Kills. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“The Mystery of the Death Stroke,” by Ernest Favenc, was originally published in Australian Town and Country Journal, Dec. 4, 1904.

The Forced Crime, by Nicholas Carter, was originally published in Nick Carter Stories No. 152, August 7, 1915.

“Entities” is copyright © 2000 by Norman Spinrad. Originally published in Destination 3001.

“The Birds Are Back in Town” is copyright © 2019 by Adrian Cole. Originally published in Gruesome Grotesques #5. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“The Courts of Jamshyd,” by Robert F. Young, was originally published in Infinity, September 1957.Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

“Keru” is copyright © 1969 by Lin Carter and first appeared in Beyond the Gates of Dream. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

“I’ll Dream of You” by Charles F. Myers, was originally published in Fantastic Adventures, January 1947.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

It seems the Halloween season starts earlier and earlier each year. I first began noticing Halloween candy in stores in July (!), and every time I turned around since then, there were more decorations, party favors, and treats at hand. Is it any wonder I’ve been wandering around the house humming “The Monster Mash” for the last few weeks?

Our 108th issue kicks off a truly epic celebration of the season, with a pair of nightmarish treats. You will never look at seagulls the same way after experiencing Adrian Cole’s “The Birds Are Back in Town.” And Lin Carter’s “Keru” is a tale that would have been right at home in Weird Tales in its heyday.

“The Power of Evil,” by Alan Orloff, is not a supernatural tale, but futuristic suspense (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken), so it’s doing double duty this time. And the grisly-sounding “A Burn That Reaches Bone,” by Karen Odden is not a mad slasher tale, but a tale of a horrible crime that reaches through the generations. (Thanks to Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman for this one.) And, of course, there are traditional mysteries, too—I found a rare Victorian-era mystery by Australian writer Ernest Favenc while I was browsing issues of Australian Town and Country Journal looking for mysteries by Mary Fortune (my favorite classic Australian mystery writer) and couldn’t resist adding it to this issue. Plus we have a detective novel featuring Nick Carter and a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

On the science fiction and fantasy side, we have another great Norman Spinrad story, a classic by Robert F. Young, and the first entry in the Pillsworth & Toffee series by Charles F. Myers (we have more coming up). Fun stuff

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The Power of Evil,” by Alan Orloff [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“Swimming into Troubled Waters,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

“A Burn That Reaches Bone,” by Karen Odden [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

“The Mystery of the Death Stroke,” by Ernest Favenc

The Forced Crime, by Nicholas Carter [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Power of Evil,” by Alan Orloff [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“Entities,” by Norman Spinrad [short story]

“The Birds Are Back in Town” is copyright © 2019 by Adrian Cole [short story]

“The Courts of Jamshyd,” by Robert F. Young [short story]

“Keru,” by Lin Carter

“I’ll Dream of You” by Charles F. Myers [short story]

Until next time, scary reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Enid North

Karl Wurf

POWER OF EVIL,by Alan Orloff

“Trey, Maria, come along.” I ushered my two children down the long corridor as we came to visit my father for perhaps the last time. Our shoes squeaked along the polished floors. When we reached the door to his room, a man in a medium-length white coat stepped up to us.

“We’re ready for you. Now remember,” he said, bending down to address the kids, too. “Don’t try to speak to him, just listen. He can’t hear you, and he’ll be distracted if you try to communicate with him.” The kids were not alarmed or upset. It was the same warning we got during last year’s visit, the same warning we got every visit. The man pulled me aside, grabbing my arm with his skeletal fingers. “The same goes for you. Please don’t try to converse. It will only make things worse for him. And ultimately for you, too.”

I nodded my head, resigned to follow orders and do things their way. I certainly wouldn’t want to make things worse.

The white-coated man gestured to us, and as we entered the room, the lights dimmed. My father was hooked up to numerous tubes, wires, and assorted machines, but it was eerily quiet. The kids pulled up chairs, while I stood behind them and waited as another technician pressed a few buttons on the console to lift the head of my father’s bed. After he was situated, my father slowly turned toward us and opened his eyes.

A broad smile grew slowly on his face. I think his eyes twinkled, although it was hard to tell in the low light. The shadow of the metal helmet he wore fell over his face, compounding the difficulty.

“It’s so good to see you; I’m glad you could make it. It is imperative that you know my story.” My father’s hoarse and scratchy voice sounded as if he hadn’t spoken in a long time. “I don’t want to die and have my story perish with me.”

At the mention of death, my children squirmed a little, but they said nothing. Good kids.

My father began his tale:

“Back in ’98—that’s 2098, kids—I was named Chief Scientist of the Organotricity Project. Our goal was to harness the brain’s electrical impulses to generate usable electricity for the power grid. Great advances in the cognitive sciences, in superconducting power generation, and in pharmacology had made this prospect technically feasible, although it was thought by many to be the stuff of science fiction. Deep in my heart, I knew that nothing was farther from the truth, and I set out, with my very determined colleagues, to prove the doubters wrong.

“Initially, there were two competing camps. Mine was the more pragmatic. We wanted to develop this technology incrementally, using sound scientific fundamentals. Our competitors were looking for the strike of lightning; they put all their eggs in one basket, but unfortunately, it turned out to be the wrong basket. After a string of disappointments, most of their good people joined up with us. And I was happy to have them. Wilhelm came over then, followed shortly by Chin. They were terrific scientists, and we became close friends. Progress was slow, but steady, and the years passed quickly. In the fall of 2107, we were finally ready for human trials. You can only learn so much from gorilla and chimp studies, after all.

“After much lobbying, we persuaded Congress and the Governing Council to finance the testing phase, and we received the permission of the Supreme Court to use federal prisoners in our studies. A tumultuous time, indeed. The public outcry was tremendous. It seemed that the most vocal were against using prisoners; luckily, the most well-funded were staunchly in favor. And, incongruously, we had the backing of the large solar companies. They were getting a lot of heat for owning virtual monopolies in the energy field. Oh, if they only knew what was in store for them. At the time, I’m sure they believed we would fail, and they just wanted to look like they were doing their civic duty. Why, they even kicked in some major funding. Can you believe that? The solar companies in bed with us! Well, we took anything offered back then—this was unproven technology and money was tight.

“Anyway, we got the go-ahead to use the prisoners, and we got our funding lined up, so we were ready to roll. By the way, using the prisoners was my idea—I think if it was any other group of subjects we would have been denied, but I knew many people viewed the prisoners as expendable. Sometimes sacrifices were necessary to advance science.”

My father closed his eyes and stopped talking. I looked around for the white-coated technicians, but they were long gone. Trey and Maria turned to me, questioning looks in their eyes. Had they just seen Grandpa die?

Abruptly, my father’s eyes popped open, and he began as if he hadn’t paused at all.

“My whole contingent—researchers, engineers, electricians, statisticians, physicians, even public relations flacks—moved onto the grounds of Western State prison. We had to put up our own Porthotel to house the whole gang. The first step was to recruit our subjects. Initially we thought that might prove difficult, but it turned out to be the easiest thing in the whole process. The prisoners would do anything to get out of their cubes—it wouldn’t have mattered if we told them they would be marching to their deaths. We had planned to offer them incentives, but that wasn’t even necessary. We had to turn away volunteers!

“Our first tests were done on single subjects. We’d hook them up, running leads from their brains to small appliances, as crude as that sounds. Back then, we had to make pin-sized holes in their skulls to feed the leads in. It wasn’t too painful, but it wasn’t... elegant.

“We brought more and more subjects online, until finally we had to build a new Science Hall—never forget that science isn’t cheap. Soon after, we had one hundred hospital beds lined up, each filled with an eager subject. We discovered early on that subjects produced more power if they were kept in a hallucinogenic state, just below the surface of consciousness. Progress was steady for a while, but after about a year, we seemed to reach a plateau. And we hadn’t yet reached an acceptable output. No, not acceptable at all.

“So, we redoubled our efforts to increase performance. We examined every step of the process to improve our results. We fiddled with the subjects’ narco patches, and we tweaked their external stimuli. Interestingly, centuries-old classical music seemed to work best. That is, until their hearing deteriorated. By the time we discovered this unfortunate side effect of the narco mix, ninety percent of our subjects were deaf. Very unfortunate, indeed, but we felt it was a small price to pay for such a great scientific achievement.

“Chin believed the technology could be hampering our results, and Harrison thought new drugs might be the answer, but I wasn’t so sure. I thought the quality of our subjects might be the limiting factor. It turned out all three of us were right. Chin made some modifications to the conversion unit, Harrison concocted a better blend of hallucinogens, and I began a series of tests to determine what type of subject was truly optimal.

“First, I grouped the subjects by body mass. I wanted to see how the power generated varied according to their mass. Did heavier subjects generate more electricity? That turned out to be a blind alley. After weeks of testing, I determined that their mass had absolutely no effect. Looking back, the direction I should have been taking seemed so obvious. The generators were being powered by the subjects’ brains, so I should have been looking at their brainpower. Well, I don’t know if it was the fatigue or the pressure to produce that blinded me, but once I realized this, our project took wings.

“I placed Wilhelm in charge of choosing subjects based on their brainpower. To test our theory, we hooked up a group of sub-100 IQ subjects and compared them to a group with IQs greater than 120. The results were astonishing. The smarter group generated eight times as much electricity. In other words, we discovered that organo-electric power generation wasn’t linear. This was an extremely important discovery. It meant that, to maximize energy, we should focus our study on those subjects with higher IQs, and the higher the better, by far. This posed a dilemma, however. As you might guess, most of the inmates in our federal prison system don’t have high IQs. In fact, at Western State, there were only two prisoners with IQs greater than 140, Stern and O’Conner.

“Those two, not previously in our study group, were more difficult to recruit. In the end, we had to promise them their sentences would be reduced. I wasn’t completely comfortable with that, but in the name of science, sometimes promises were meant to be broken... ”

My father’s voice drifted off, and a faraway look grew on his face. As a child, I would see that same look when he would tell us about his work at the lab, which was what he called Western State prison.

He looked over at us and, remembering his mission to tell his story before he died, he picked right up where he left off.

“We hooked up those two criminal geniuses, Stern and O’Conner. And they were off the charts. Unbelievable. Each one, by himself, was cranking out more power than all the other subjects combined. When we saw this, we immediately terminated the testing on the others, and concentrated on our superstars.

“We were so amazed that we almost missed a crucial finding. Stern’s IQ was 156 and O’Conner’s was 159, but Stern was generating twice as much power as O’Conner. Clearly something else besides pure intellect was in play. We knew that if we could find out what that was and harness it, we would make history.

“Wilhelm and I gave the two subjects test after test, measuring every parameter imaginable. First, we took physical measurements of each part of the brain looking for a physiological explanation. Nothing popped out at us. Then we looked at cognitive abilities; memory, reasoning, arithmetic ability, language, and dozens of other attributes were mapped and analyzed. It wasn’t until we considered their personalities that we began to see a possible reason for the disparity.

“O’Conner was convicted for manslaughter in a self-defense case. He was protecting his family from an intruder, and the jury ruled he had used unnecessary force. Prior to that incident, he had no record of any violent or aberrant behavior. Basically, he was a good guy who got pushed too far and snapped while defending his family.

“Stern, on the other hand, was not a good guy at all. He was serving a life sentence for the brutal beating death of a hospital nurse, of all people. But unlike O’Conner, Stern had a previous pattern of evil. He’d been convicted on several assault charges and had numerous other scrapes with the law—all violent offenses.

“Could the evil brain generate more power than the good brain? Wilhelm, Chin, and I argued about that for days. In the end, we had the empirical data to prove it. Evil was stronger than good. With this information, our path was clear. We combed the entire federal prison system for the smartest, most violent criminals, and had them transferred to Western State. Within weeks, we had seventeen prime candidates lined up and ready to go.

“It didn’t take long for us to ramp things up to full-scale production levels. I won’t bore you with the details, but within four months, we were generating enough electricity to power 80% of the country’s needs—with just those seventeen subjects! It was truly the most important technological advance in human history. But, and this is perhaps the most amazing feat, no one knew about it! We had successfully been feeding the media our version of the project’s progress, and to the rest of the world it appeared we were still years away from perfecting our technology. We wanted to be certain of our results before we completely revolutionized Earth.”

My father stopped again. I could tell he was tiring, but I also knew he would summon up the strength to finish his story. We were almost done. He gazed at me, making direct eye contact for the first time, searching my face for some sign of affection, or at least empathy. I gave neither.

He pushed on:

“When the Radicals gained power in the election of ’12, our country underwent a tragic change. This was also the time the solar companies tried to hold the country hostage by raising the electricity rates to stratospheric levels, refusing to build new capacity unless the new plants were completely funded by the taxpayers. The Radicals wouldn’t give in to blackmail. And they put extreme pressure on us to complete our project so that the country wouldn’t be totally reliant on solar. They didn’t know that we were, in fact, already virtually geared up for production. That is, we didn’t think they knew. But, on the evening of April 12, 2113, we found out otherwise.

“I was working late in the lab, like I always did—like we all did. Forty federal agents and sixty federal technologists, all operating under Radical authority, burst through the front doors of the Science Hall. Right through the front doors! They locked down the facility, cut off communication, and prepared to appropriate our project.

“Chin, Wilhelm, and I could only watch as all our hard work was stolen. We learned that they planned to duplicate our generation facility in each of the twenty techno-regions of the country. Then they would take one of our evil criminal superstars to power each facility. Instead of trillions of dollars of solar power generation equipment, each region would be powered completely by one brilliant, yet evil, criminal mind.

“And then I was stricken. I remember sitting next to Chin and Wilhelm and seeing their eyes grow wide with fright, and then... I remember nothing. Absolutely nothing... ”

My father was interrupted by a technician entering the room. He said to us, “Scheduled annual maintenance blackout is over. It’s time to get Number 18 back online. See you next year.”

He went over to the console and flipped a few switches. My father’s eyes rolled back into his head, and the lights slowly grew brighter and brighter and brighter.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alan Orloff (alanorloff.com) has published ten novels and more than forty-five short stories. His work has won an Anthony, an Agatha, a Derringer, and two ITW Thriller Awards. He loves cake and arugula, but not together. Never together. He lives and writes in South Florida, where the examples of hijinks are endless.

SWIMMING INTO TROUBLED WATERS,by Hal Charles

Normally, Detective Erin Strong guarded her days off with gusto. But when she received a desperate call from her brother early that morning, she raced to the station house, knowing only that Steve had been arrested.

As Erin entered the familiar brick building, she thought about her relationship with Steve. Since their youth, both had excelled athletically, and her brother never tired of bragging about the latest technological advance he had discovered that would give him the upper hand in their friendly competitions, whether it was a newly-designed running shoe, a tennis racket with an enlarged “sweet spot,” or even the fancy new rebreather tank that would allow him to get closer to the fish they observed while scuba diving off the town pier.

Erin found her younger brother in the chief’s office, where her boss had kept him since the arrest as a courtesy to Erin. “Thanks, Chief,” she said to the bear-sized officer across the room.

“Erin,” said Chief Logan, almost apologetically, “I hated to arrest Steve, but I really had no choice.”

“Exactly what is he accused of?” said Erin, studying her brother, who was slumped in a straight-backed chair.

“There was a robbery at Murphy’s Wholesale down at the pier last night,” said Logan.

“Murphy’s Wholesale?” said Erin. “Steve just started working there last week.”

“Sis,” said Steve, “they say I used my key to get into the building and take a lockbox containing cash that was kept in Mr. Murphy’s desk.”

Erin looked at Chief Logan. “Do you know who else had a key to the building?”

“Mr. Murphy is out of town,” said Logan, “but when I called him, he said that besides his, the only keys belonged to Steve, Milly Johnson, his office manager, and Ralph Shelton, the company’s accountant.”

“Why did you arrest Steve?” said Erin, a touch of anger in her voice. “Anyone with a key could have stolen the money.”

“But,” said Logan, “we have an eyewitness to the crime. Sammy Bolton, the building’s security guard, claims he saw your brother enter the building and leave with the lockbox.”

“Sis,” said Steve, “you have to believe me. I didn’t steal anything.”

Erin put her hand on her brother’s shoulder, then said, “Chief, where is this Sammy Bolton?”

“I have him in the interview room down the hall,” said Logan. “Erin, his account of things seems credible, but I guess it wouldn’t hurt if you talked with him.”

Erin and Chief Logan headed toward the interview room, leaving a uniformed officer to watch Steve. When they entered the room, a tall, pencil-thin young man in a khaki shirt and pants stood up. “Chief Logan,” he said, “I’ve been here all morning. I haven’t had anything to eat or any sleep since I called in the robbery last night.”

“Just have a seat, Mr. Bolton,” said Logan flatly, “and run through your account one more time.”

“Well,” said Bolton, “like I told you, I was making my rounds last night like always. The building was locked down for the weekend, and I thought there was no way anybody could get near the place since the parking lot gate was locked.”

“Go on,” said Logan.

“That’s when I saw him,” said Bolton, his speech quickening. “You know our lot backs up to the water around the pier.”

Logan nodded.

‘Well, the new guy’s always talking about how he goes scuba diving with his sister.”

“And?” said Erin.

“I look up, and there’s just enough light to see a trail of bubbles approach the shore. This figure in a wetsuit slides out of the water, goes into the building, and comes out with a metal box under his arm. His mask is off, and I see the new guy.”

“Steve Strong,” said Logan.

That’s right,” said Bolton. “He jumps back into the water and swims away beneath another trail of bubbles.”

Erin stared at the security guard. “The only water I see is the hot water you’re in.”

Solution

When Bolton claimed to have seen a trail of bubbles as her brother supposedly swam to shore, Erin knew the security guard was lying. Steve always used a rebreather tank when he scuba-ed since it produced no bubbles, allowing him to approach fish without disturbing them. Confronted, Bolton confessed that he had used his master key to enter the building and take the lockbox, figuring nobody would question his accusations against “the new guy.”

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcasesthe best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

A BURN THAT REACHES BONE,by Karen Odden

Living with my father was like driving a bad road. As his kid, you’re completely in the dark, and the potholes surprise the hell out of you, but when you’re coming up on thirty years old, it’s more like driving by a single weak headlight. You know about the potholes, and how deep they are, so you’re wary, not wanting to crack a rim or blow a strut.

If I had to guess, I’d say his harsh temper comes from working for more than fifty years in the restaurant business, starting at age twelve. Busing tables in a cheap steakhouse, paid in quarters under the table. Slaving sixteen hours a day as a sous-chef in New York. Drinking booze with customers till closing and downing coffee to function at opening. Having to beg the last ten thousand from his brother Joe to buy his first restaurant in Phoenix. Talk about a bad road. Although Dad’s seven restaurants, sold two years ago to an up-and-coming restaurateur, are thriving. Of course, now my father wishes they’d fail.

There’s a new edge to my father’s spitefulness since he went into the hospital. He’s not just dying of cancer. He’s using it as an excuse for abusing the hospital staff. They don’t fight back, obviously; they just smile “in that mocking way,” he says, which pisses him off even more. He’s scheduled for another round of chemo, a last-ditch attempt to beat it back, but after this, it’ll be hospice. I feel shitty admitting it, but there’s part of me that will feel relieved when he’s gone.

This morning, he sends for Sarah and me, so I drive in from Gilbert to the Scottsdale hospital near his house. I park my rebuilt Mustang between two palo verde trees to avoid the birds that would crap on it. Sarah is waiting for me across the hospital lobby. She’s thirty-two, three years older, and a better person in pretty much every way. After our mom died, she’d text me to stay at a friend’s because Dad was raging drunk. After she started at ASU, she helped me graduate from high school. I tried college for a while but couldn’t stick with it. She’s got a pharmacy degree, a sweet kid, and a great husband, only he found out recently that he’s having some health issues. Not sure what, but as I come close, I can see Sarah has that white weary look around her eyes that means she’s not sleeping.

“Hey, Robbie.” She smiles wanly.

“Hey.” I throw an arm around her, drop a quick kiss on her cheek. “Any idea what he wants?”

She shakes her head.

We take the elevator up and find his room, with “Mario D.” on the whiteboard beside the door.

He’s in bed with a metal skeletal contraption to the side, one of its arms holding a bag of fluid that’s dripping by tube into the inside of his elbow. His once-dark hair has peppered, puffing over his ears. He squints at us, and Sarah crosses to the window to adjust the shade, softening the fierce July sunlight.

We greet him, and Sarah asks, “How are you feeling today?”

“Like shit,” he spits.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah replies, and we sit in the two chairs. This puts us below bed level, and his body loses some of its tension.

“So I need to tell you,” he begins. “But first, close the door.”

Sarah does as requested, then takes her seat again. We wait expectantly. The doctors told us they’re seeing some dementia veering toward paranoia. All of Dad’s ugliest impulses have been surfacing lately, including a nasty anti-Semitism that Sarah simply won’t sit for. Last time he burst out about the “kike doctor who hasn’t done crap,” Sarah left the room and didn’t come back, even though he screamed for her until the nurses had to sedate him. We’re not sure if Dad’s forgotten that Sarah’s husband, David, is Jewish or if he remembers it perfectly well. Either way, our father has been acting worse and worse. So today I’m ready for him to pop out with just about anything.

He looks at us sideways. “I got a favor. One last thing you can do for your old man.”

“What is it?” Sarah asks with a show of patience.

He raises a hand to tell us he’s in charge, and the ask will come later. We both stiffen, knowing this stalling is a bad sign.

“Thirty years ago, what’d I do?” he asks.

Not quite in unison, Sarah and I reply, “You opened Buongiorno.” Not that we remember; Sarah was two years old, and I wasn’t born yet. But we know the script.

He nods, his right fingers tapping the tray in front of him, and I notice two yellow envelopes. One for each of us, I suppose.

“Your uncle Joe came to see me last week. Reminded me how he got half the equity for ten thousand dollars. Laughed the whole time. Rotten bastard.”

I flinch at my uncle’s name. My father isn’t the only one my uncle Joe has mocked in a moment of financial need. I haven’t seen him in years. He bought a McMansion on the golf course at Grayhawk, with his fourth wife, Margo. The one time I met her, she seemed like a nice person. Nicer than he deserved.

“I built that business myself,” my father says. “All seven restaurants!” His eyes narrowed. “Do you know what he did?”

I reply solo: “He was a manager for a chain of car washes.”

“Damn straight! And he went behind my back,” he says, his hands making a clawing motion, first to the left and then to the right. “Snatching up profits, lying and telling people—”

“Dad, what’s the point?” Sarah cuts him off.

His two hands land on the envelopes. “You need to put an end to him.”

There’s a long silence, and then I give a half laugh. “You don’t mean—”

His face twists with disgust. “Jesus. How did I end up with such a puling idiot for a son?”

“Shut up, Dad.” Sarah’s voice is flat. “He’s not an idiot just because he still tries to find some decency in you.”

I swallow hard as I understand that my father means he wants his brother dead.

He ignores Sarah. “I have two wills.” His hand taps the left envelope. “One leaves everything to you two—everything,” he barks and breaks into a cough that brings tears to his eyes. I hand him a tissue, and he wipes at them. “Ten million each.”

My chest tightens. There’s a gas station and garage I’ve wanted to buy for four million, but I can’t get a loan unless my father co-signs. He’s outright refused. And now he’s dangling the money like this?

“The other will leaves everything to charity.” He pats the other envelope. “This one’s signed and notarized, for now.”

Sarah squints. “Which charity?”

He cackles a bit. “The NRA.”

“That’s not a charity.” Sarah despises the group, and he knows it. Her friend Beth teaches at a school in Nebraska where some crazy-ass gunman shot three kids before he was tackled.

My father shrugs, and his blue-and-white striped pajamas shift and buckle. His top button is undone, revealing the wrinkled olive skin with a dusting of curly gray hair below his collarbone. “You do this for me, and I sign the other will. Your choice.”

Jesus, he’s lost it.

“We’re not killing Uncle Joe,” Sarah says.

His eyebrows lift. “Then tell me how you’re going to help that husband of yours. He could die without treatment,” he says triumphantly.

I spin toward her. “Sarah?”

Her green eyes flash at him, and her expression hardens. “He’s not going to die.”

“That’s not what I hear,” my father says with a grimace. “Besides, you’ll want to kill Uncle Joe when I tell you what he did.”

“No, we won’t,” Sarah says sharply. “Come on, Robbie, let’s go.”

I know she’s trying to get me out of there, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I plant my feet.

“I’m not going to kill him, but what did he do?” I ask.

“Robbie, come on,” Sarah insists, behind me.

My father’s gaze pins me. “He raped your mother in the back room opening night,” he says, his voice rough as tires on gravel. “Told me last week, right here.” He slapped the bed. “Said he took her, same as he took my restaurants.”

I stare open-mouthed. My uncle’s an asshole, but my father lies, and I don’t believe this. It’s too much.

“He gets away with everything,” my father rasps. “But I’m winning at this. He dies first. Not me. Him.”

Sarah picks up her bag from the chair. “I’m leaving.” Her voice is toneless. “And don’t scream this time.”

“Bye, Dad,” I say.

He points. “Don’t take long. I might die in a week.”

“Selfish bastard,” Sarah says as we get on the elevator.

“He’s wacked,” I reply. “But what’s going on with David?”

“Oh... they’re not sure.” Her face is bleak. “They’re still testing. The doctors at Mayo think it’s a growth in his pituitary.”

That doesn’t sound hopeful.

The doors open, and we cross the lobby. “Sarah, why didn’t you tell me? You’ve got to be scared shitless.”

“There’s nothing you could do.” She shakes her head. “Can we not talk about it?”

“Okay,” I agree, somewhat reluctantly. We approach her car, and she clicks the unlock button.

“The thing about the will,” I say. “Legally, is Dad even competent? I mean, he has some dementia. Now he’s making shit up and trying to get us to kill someone. I’d say that counts as crazy.”